


Fight Fire With, uh, Coffee?

by kindclaws



Series: bingo, chopped, and prompts [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Chopped: The 100 Fanfic Edition, F/M, Kissing in the Rain, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Round 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 02:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18274178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindclaws/pseuds/kindclaws
Summary: Blake's Brews, 4.7/5 stars, 59 reviews.04/12 Anonymous:The coffee here is really good!!! My barista spontaneously lit on fire after I paid but the coffee more than made up for it. 4.5 out of 5 would come again.04/23 Roma F:The owner seems like a grump but he's actually really kind and has an excellent memory for supernatural dietary restrictions. I'm part fae and he always makes my brew with iron-free implements. Plus all the baristas are cute just sayin' ;)05/17 Anonymous:I don't even like coffee but I come by regularly because I think two of the baristas are falling in love and I shit you not it's the cutest thing ever06/08 John M:good pastries. my gf dragged me here to look at the flirting baristas. Mr Blake if you're reading this pls make a move, I have money on you realizing you're in love by the end of the month.Would you like to write a review for Blake's Brews?





	Fight Fire With, uh, Coffee?

**Author's Note:**

> Mandatory prompts/tropes to include:  
> 1\. one half of pairing is a mythical creature  
> 2\. coffee shop au  
> 3\. person A teaches person B how to do something, with physical contact  
> 4\. kissing in the rain
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 **Blake's Brews, 4.7/5 stars, 59 reviews.**  
  
_04/12 Anonymous:_ The coffee here is really good!!! My barista spontaneously lit on fire after I paid but the coffee more than made up for it. 4.5 out of 5 would come again.  
_04/23 Roma F:_ The owner seems like a grump but he's actually really kind and has an excellent memory for supernatural dietary restrictions. I'm part fae and he always makes my brew with iron-free implements. Plus all the baristas are cute just sayin' ;)  
_05/17 Anonymous:_ I don't even like coffee but I come by regularly because I think two of the baristas are falling in love and I shit you not it's the cutest thing ever  
_06/08 John M:_ good pastries. my gf dragged me here to look at the flirting baristas. Mr Blake if you're reading this pls make a move, I have money on you realizing you're in love by the end of the month.  
  
**Would you like to write a review for Blake's Brews?**

 

 

 

Bellamy’s first thought when he sees the new barista Octavia just hired is that she looks utterly clueless.

No, that’s a lie, that’s his second thought. The first is that she’s unfairly cute, and he banishes that immediately, because he’s not going to be the asshole boss who checks out his employees, even if a traitorous little part of him notices the way her eyes widen when he introduces himself. The third thought he has is that she’s incredibly unlucky, since her very first shift is going to be the morning rush of the first day of midterms for the nearby college. That's the worst possible combination.

The shop is small enough that having 2 or 3 of them behind the counter at a time tends to be more than enough – that morning, they have four, since Octavia’s going to be showing the new girl the ropes. The trainee – _Clarke_ , according to her name and pronoun badge – trails his sister like a lost puppy, nodding along at every brisk explanation of what each machine does and occasionally glancing over her shoulder at the line of customers that Bellamy and Monty are serving that’s growing longer every minute.

Bellamy knows he's a bit of a difficult boss. He's poured everything he has into opening up Blake's Brews and he wants it to be perfect. He _needs_ it to be perfect. He has high expectations for his baristas.

...But the trainee - _Clarke_ – is absolutely _awful_. She keeps accidentally elbowing Octavia, fumbling with the lids, knocking the bowl of enchanted cough drops off the counter. Octavia’s voice steadily gets more and more frustrated as she has to repeatedly correct the order Clarke tries to make drinks in. Bellamy takes one look at the line of customers and decides it’s best to step in before Octavia introduces their newest employee to her supernaturally sharp teeth. He taps Octavia on the shoulder.

“Go help Monty,” he says. “I got it from here.”

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says quickly. “I’m trying really hard, it’s just a lot to remember – “

“It is,” Bellamy says simply, and slides the sugar tray closer to her. She takes the hint and quickly adds in two scoops. “Hand that one over, I’ll start the next drink.”

He turns around and pours a new cup of coffee. It’s a simple order, thankfully, definitely impossible for Clarke to screw up –

Bellamy turns around, holding the drink, and finds out that Clarke is way, _way_ closer than he thought she was. As he accidentally bumps into her, the newly-brewed coffee goes sloshing over the side of the mug and spills all over her front and the hand she raises in defence. Clarke yelps loud enough to make Monty jump a foot in the air. Bellamy's immediate thought is to grab the first aid kit, get her affected skin under cool water - and then because this shift hasn't gone badly enough yet, _she lights on fire._

He… he doesn't know how to deal with that.

When they laugh about this disaster, a few months from now, he'll say that's why his feet were absolutely rooted to the floor, why he stared at her in confusion and horror as the flames started licking at her clothes. The cute new barista pats herself down, trying to extinguish the fire, but it seems only to flame higher the more flushed her cheeks get.

And all Bellamy can think is _I am so sorry_ and _I swear the coffee was not that hot._

Monty is the one who moves first, darting forwards with the fire extinguisher and spraying acrid white foam all over their flaming coworker. The smell of it makes Bellamy grimace and cough, but it seems to be working at least, suppressing the flames until Clarke emerges from within them looking... completely unscathed, honestly. Her skin is whole and unblistered, if a little pink, and her hair is utterly unchanged. Not even a singed eyebrow. The same cannot be said, unfortunately, for her clothes and apron. Huge patches of them have been burnt away and are still smoking slightly, revealing bare, unharmed skin. Clarke mumbles a long string of swears as she takes in the damage and tries to hold what's left of her shirt together. Luckily for Bellamy's sanity and the state of his online reviews, the fire suppressing foam also helps to hide the patches of exposed skin.

"Stop staring!" Octavia snaps, grabbing several coffee creamers and whipping them across the storefront at a group of giggling middle school boys with frightening accuracy. She gives the coffeeshop at large a glare that threatens additional projectiles, and then wraps an arm around Clarke's shoulders and herds her towards the back room. "Haven't you idiots ever met a phoenix before?"

"Oh," Bellamy says to himself.

The coffeeshop disperses as the door to the back room slams shut behind them. Some customers take one look at the disastrous smears of foul-smelling foam and decide they're getting their morning fuel somewhere else. A woman comes up to Bellamy and says she's willing to lend Clarke a spare pair of yoga pants from her gym bag, if she hasn’t got a change of clothes of her own.

Bellamy thanks her and passes them on to Monty to take into the back room. He doesn't think Clarke will want to see him right now. He wouldn't, in her place.

He stews in his thoughts as he gets out a mop and starts cleaning up enough of the floor that he can actually get to the counter and serve the last few customers sticking around for their orders.

"Can you flip the sign to closed on your way out?" Bellamy asks one of the regulars, a werewolf named Monroe who runs with Octavia. "I think we need some time to clean this up."

"Tough luck today, Blake," Monroe says sympathetically, and gives him a thumbs up as she leaves.

 _Yeah. Tough luck._ They make most of their money during the morning rush. The coffee shop is doing well so far, considering Bellamy had absolutely no idea what he was doing when he opened it up, but not well enough that a day of lost profits doesn't sting a little. He thinks he'll never forget working two jobs in high school just so he and Octavia had a chance of making it out of their dusty little town. 

After Clarke has gone home (without meeting his eyes) and Monty is wiping off tables in the far corner with a cheerful whistling tune, Bellamy sidles up to Octavia and says, in a low voice:

"You didn't tell me the new barista is a phoenix," Bellamy says.

Octavia stiffens.

"Is that a problem?"

"I just want to know if I need to order more fire extinguishers," Bellamy says evenly, ignoring the bait.

"We'll see," Octavia says grudgingly, still hunching her shoulders. "She might quit. Or I might fire her if she doesn't get better at remembering orders."

"It's my coffee shop, I decide who gets fired," Bellamy says. He's not sure why he's arguing about this. He would absolutely hate firing someone. He would feel _so_ bad.

"That would be more believable if you hadn't made me do the interviews," Octavia says over her shoulder as she drifts off. "I hire 'em, I can fire 'em."

Bellamy watches her walk away glumly.

It wasn't always like this. It wasn't always like every conversation was a minefield with her, every interaction carrying the possibility of a screaming fight. She used to love him unconditionally.

But then she got bitten by a rogue werewolf, and instead of trusting Bellamy to support her through the change, she dropped out of high school and ran away for two years and told him he was supposed to feel grateful that she called him every few months on a payphone to say that she was still alive and still running loose with a bunch of criminals.

Octavia only came back because her first pack eventually turned on her. Bellamy knows now that she wouldn't have returned for him alone. And he doesn't entirely recognize the girl she became without him. But she's here now, and she’s taking a mindfulness class run by and for werewolves, and running with a local pack that doesn't destroy everything in their path. So Bellamy will count his small victories.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I should be fired,” Clarke moans. She’s been wallowing sideways on her bed, her head hanging off the side, for about half an hour now and the blood rushing to her head is starting to make her very woozy.

Beside her, equally upside down, Wells snickers.

“From the sounds of it, you’ve already been _fired_ ,” he says.

“I will punch you in the mouth,” Clarke retorts.

“I’d like to see you try,” he responds, and floats closer so his stupid grinning mouth is actually within arm’s reach. Through his transparent form, Clarke can see her bedroom door and the pile of burnt, foam-covered clothes discarded at the foot of it. “Come on Clarke, punch me.”

“Oh, I will,” Clarke says fervently. “I’ll get a PhD in demonology even if it takes me the next thirty years. I’ll write a groundbreaking thesis on new techniques to solidify spirits and my first act as Best Scientist In The World will be to give you a physical form and then, Wells William Jaha, I will punch you in the mouth.”

“That still means I have nothing to fear for thirty years.”

“You can fear the hand of justice coming down.”

“Uh huh,” Wells says, still smiling at her.

“You’re the worst best friend ever,” Clarke says. “I come to you, on this day of my first job, and I ask you for emotional support, and you – “ she can’t keep going, bursting into giggles that strain the awkward angle of her throat. She shifts to a more comfortable position on the bed and tries to keep going. “And you – You don’t tease with respect. You don’t offer friendship - ”

Wells’ ghostly shoulders shake with barely-suppressed laughter. Several of the canvases hung on the far wall begin to tremble on their pegs before falling to the floor.

“Dude, not cool,” Clarke complains, standing up. Black spots appear on her vision as all the blood gathered in her head rushes downwards. She blinks it away and stumbles to the nearest fallen painting, carefully hanging it back up.

“I’m done, I’m done,” Wells says, raising his hands up in surrender. “Teasing over. I’m in full supportive shoulder to cry on mode.”

“Sure you are.”

“Okay, seriously,” Wells says, spinning around so he’s floating right-side up again. He crosses his legs and props his fist under his chin in a studious position. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the earnest, subtle smile on his face was genuine. “So you started a new job, met your boss, were completely unprepared for how hot he was – “

“ _Wells_ ,” Clarke hisses.

“You literally spent twenty minutes just talking about his arms, Clarke, I’m allowed to have this.”

“The _worst_.”

“As I was saying, he’s really hot, he spilled hot coffee on you and you instantly knew he was the one – “

“I _knew_ you couldn’t be serious about this!” Clarke laughingly shrieks, grabbing a pillow and throwing it straight through Wells’ transparent torso.

“I am completely serious,” Wells insists. “Your overwhelming horniness made you lose control over your phoenix abilities and you accidentally lit yourself on fire to let him know about your burning passion – “

“ _I will call an exorcist!_ ”

“You’re valid,” Wells says with a perfectly straight face. Clarke covers her face with both hands and flops back onto her bed. The ceiling fan rotates unendingly above her, sending waves of cool air against her smoldering skin. Clarke listens to it. _Thwap thwap thwap_. She counts ten rotations and takes her hands off her face.

“I could skip class and sneak in and help you remember how to make coffee while invisible,” Wells offers helpfully.

“You don’t know how to make coffee either,” Clarke grumbles.

“Ask Octavia to show you one more time at the start of your shift and I’ll watch. Whatever I pick up will still be an improvement on your skills.”

“Rude,” Clarke says with a long-suffering sigh. “Also, that's probably illegal.”

Wells makes a considering, thoughtful sound.

“It’s just because I was surprised,” Clarke says, in the tone of someone who is trying very hard to give themselves the pep talk they deserve. “I was caught off-guard. But now I _know_ he’s exactly my type, so it’s okay. I’ll go back and be a great employee and totally cool. There will be no more embarrassing incidents."

Wells makes the same thoughtful sound, and at that they immediately launch right back into a back-and-forth narrative where Clarke grows up to invent increasingly convoluted methods of ghostly revenge.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The phoenix is back the following day for her next shift. Bellamy eyes her with some surprise as she strides through the front door with her head held high, not a flicker of nervousness or embarrassment on her face. The sound of the bell tinkles and fades away.

“Good morning,” Bellamy says evenly. “You’re in early.”

“So are you,” Clarke shoots back. She walks behind the counter and tosses her backpack into a cubicle in the back room without hesitation.

“There’s a new apron for you on the hooks,” Bellamy says, playing it casual, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her freeze before reaching for it.

“Thanks,” Clarke says. She ties it behind her back with quick, deft fingers, then steps up to the counter with him. “Sooo, anything I can do?”

“Not much,” Bellamy says, giving his beloved coffee shop a quick scan. “Maya did a really good job cleaning up last night, so there wasn’t much left for us to do.”

He smiles out at his shop, admiring the culmination of his labours.

“You really love this place, huh?” Clarke asks, leaning her forearms on the counter.

“Everyone thought I’d fail when I opened up. Even me. I’m still shocked by how busy we get sometimes,” Bellamy admits. He’s not sure why he tells her about it. Maybe because dawn is still procrastinating on the horizon and he’s vulnerable before he wakes up fully, maybe because the shop is silent and empty but for them, maybe because her eyes are so earnest. He realizes with a jolt that he doesn’t get a lot of daily conversations with eye contact. A lot of customers are looking down at their wallet or up at the menu or eyeing the pastry display, and a lot of his employees are frantically dashing around to fill out orders without opportunities to really stop and… look.

“This is like the first place anyone on campus recommends to freshmen,” Clarke says with a half-smile.

“And thank goodness for that,” Bellamy says dryly, “Because college kids and their terrible sleep schedules keep us afloat.”

“It’s a civic duty to stay up all night,” Clarke jokes.

“I almost envy them,” Bellamy says wistfully.

“Really?” Clarke says. “Even with the deadlines and the student loans and everything?”

“They have libraries,” Bellamy says, like this makes all the suffering worthwhile.

Clarke gets a thoughtful look and glances around the coffee shop, her clever eyes examining every nook and cranny of the sitting area.

“We could have a library in here,” Clarke says.

“In a coffee shop?”

“Yeah. You could fit a nice bookshelf in that corner,” Clarke says, pointing. “Have a community lending library.”

Bellamy’s smile is a little rueful as he considers the idea.

“It probably wouldn’t help us make money,” Bellamy says. “The idea is to have a good turnover. If people are sitting at the tables for a long time reading and a potential customer looks in through the window and decides it’s too busy, we’ll miss out on that business.”

“I didn’t think about that,” Clarke says, deflating slightly.

“Don’t feel bad – “ Bellamy starts to say, just as the bells above the door chime and a satyr wearing a flower crown and a studded denim jacket comes in. He straightens up and casts the newcomer a broad smile. “Morning, Harper! Medium cappuccino with a dash of cinnamon, right?”

“Yes please,” Harper says gratefully, her hooves clicking against the linoleum as she approaches. Clarke immediately takes up position at the cash register. Every inch of her stiff, ruler-straight spine screams ‘trying to make up for yesterday’. Bellamy reaches out to pat her shoulder consolingly, without thinking that he’s only known her a day and should absolutely not be casually touching employees. He retracts his hand only seconds later, partially because Clarke flinched like he’d hurt her and partially because there is now a very small fire on that shoulder.

“I am so sorry,” Bellamy says, staring at the little flame in mounting horror.

“It’s fine!” Clarke says, sounding a little hysterical as she slaps at her flaming shoulder. “Shit happens! Oh shit, am I not supposed to swear in front of customers? Fuck I did it - _fuck_.”

“I’m sorry this is happening to you but this is the best morning I’ve had all month,” Harper says to them both once Clarke’s put out the fire. The only sign is a gently smoking hole through which Bellamy can see an incredibly tempting mole. He tries not to stare as he busies himself preparing Harper’s cappuccino.

Clarke is silent and beet-red as she processes Harper’s payment, jabbing one button on the cash register at a time like a grandmother typing up an email. No, that’s a lie. Bellamy has seen grandmothers type faster.

“Extra cinnamon on the house,” Bellamy says quietly as he slides Harper’s drink across the counter. Harper blows him a delighted kiss and winks before strolling out.

“I’m really, really sorry,” Bellamy says. “Please let me know if I can do something to make you more, uh, comfortable working here.”

“It’s not you,” Clarke says tiredly. Then she seems to think for a moment and corrects herself. “It’s not your fault.”

Bellamy’s not sure what the distinction is, but it doesn’t make him feel any less guilty.

“I’m sorry if this is an insensitive question, but – “ he says. He searches for the right words. “Fire-proof clothing?”

“It’s the worst,” she says, giving a dramatic sigh that makes him think he’s not the first person she’s ranted about this to before. “I know it’s vain of me, but apparently there aren’t enough phoenixes to justify mass-producing a lot of stuff, and the financially-accessible stuff has no fashion sense, at all. Have you ever walked through the bra section at a department store? You know how over a certain cup size, the only colours you can find are beige, because bra manufacturers are like, _‘hurr-durr, no one over an E cup wants cute designs –_ “

By the time the stream of early-morning customers coming in is large enough that he and Clarke both have to devote their full attention to coffee-making, Bellamy’s laughed so hard he’s gotten a stitch in his side. Zeke arrives halfway through the morning rush and quickly joins Bellamy’s side, his experience and steady hands helping to make up for Clarke’s jerky, hesitant work.

“It’ll get easier,” he promises in between customers. “It’s a lot to learn at the start, especially during the morning rush, but you’ll develop muscle memory in no time.”

“I hope you’re right,” Clarke says gloomily.

Bellamy loses himself for a while in the ebb and flow of customers both familiar and not. He smiles at the ones he knows will appreciate it, is brisk and methodical when handing over drinks or change to the ones who don’t want to talk until _after_ their caffeine.

There are no major disasters for the rest of the morning rush. By that Bellamy means that he or Zeke manage to remake or fix any drinks Clarke mucks up without customers noticing or getting impatient. It’s enough of a small victory.

Eventually the shop settles into something resembling calm, with Zeke humming along to the radio as he makes a complicated latte and the low murmur of a few students working on homework at the tables. Bellamy leans his hip against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest and reconsiders the corner Clarke pointed out earlier.

He still thinks it might lose them money, but the more he thinks about it, the more he doesn’t care. He and Octavia have a decent living, between the coffee shop and Octavia occasionally getting called in by law enforcement to use her nose to track down runaway teenagers (ironic) and elusive criminal suspects (also possibly ironic, but it's best not to think about that chapter of Octavia's life.) He doesn’t _need_ to make every business decision based on what will give them the maximum profits anymore, and he likes the warm feeling in his chest when he imagines putting in a shelf with some of the old books in the basement that he doesn’t read anymore. His eyes glaze over as he indulgently imagines putting in a cluster of armchairs or beanbags and having them filled with an eager rotation of readers of every age and sort.

Bellamy is snapped out of that fantasy by a startled yelp. He looks everywhere for the source before realizing Clarke has caught on fire again. Her cheeks are bright and she won’t look at him as she sticks her hands under the tap to extinguish them.

“It’s okay,” Bellamy says in what he hopes is a soothing voice. “You’re not in trouble.”

Clarke grumbles and flees to the other end of the bar to clean the already-sparkling fridge. Bellamy sighs and gives her some time to chill before striking up conversation again.

“I’ve been thinking about your library idea,” he says casually, once she wanders a little closer to him in her duties.

“Yeah?” Clarke asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I want to do it,” he says, nodding seriously. “Profit isn’t the be-all, end-all. I want this café to be the kind of place that people can feel at home in.”

Clarke blinks, clearly taken aback by his support.

“That’s – that’s great,” she says, and then nervously checks her hands. Bellamy eyes them too, but the moment passes and she doesn’t ignite again, so it’s probably still safe to be standing where he is.

A week later Bellamy brings in a second-hand bookshelf he found tossed out on the curb. He and Monty give it a through scrubbing and rearrange the tables until he’s satisfied that the flow of traffic won’t be impeded. The bookshelf is old and scratched, but sturdy, solid wood. The books come next, slowly at first, and then picking up speed as customers notice it and bring in donations.

Bellamy was right. He _does_ like what it adds to the atmosphere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clarke doesn’t exactly get much better at making lattes – which is embarrassing – but at least she doesn’t get much worse. She leaves sticky notes reminding her what ingredients go in what drink in what order littered through her house, studying them with interest even when she’s home. She has Wells quiz her, even though he cackles when she still gets them wrong weeks into her job.

The most impressive achievement is that she stops setting herself on fire quite so often. This is partially due to her learning how to not get distracted by the quick flash of Bellamy’s smile at his favourite customers or the way he rolls up his sleeves and leans against the counter with his arms crossed during lulls in traffic. And it helps, of course, that Bellamy seems to be making a conscious effort to give her a wide physical berth at the shop, even as they joke and trade anecdotes constantly.

When Clarke remembers the look on his face after he patted her shoulder comfortingly and it burst into flames, she feels her temperature rising all over again. He looked so _guilty_ , and she doesn’t know how to tell him he didn’t cross her personal boundaries. He’s just… he’s beautiful, in so many senses of the word.

It’s not just his face and his hair and the terrible sight of his arms flexing.

He’s _kind_. He has _such_ a big heart.

After she sees how often he goes soft and dopey when local middle school kids come in during their recess to buy pastries and pile into the bean bag seats to share books, Clarke finds herself doing stupid stuff to make him smile. Maya helps her take down the menu above the bar in secret one evening and they replace it with a slab of recycled wood that they painstakingly painted together, all their drinks and snacks listed in flowing calligraphy, bordered by drawings of small woodland creatures cuddling up to coffee cups. They have a fantastic amount of fun designing it, even though Clarke has to consciously reign in her excitement while she’s painting it, lest she burn a handprint into the new menu.

Clarke gets up at the crack of dawn the next day to make sure she’s there to see his reaction. Bellamy and Octavia come in together and his jaw literally drops. Clarke discreetly fiddles with the knobs of the tap as her sweaty hands threaten to ignite under the pressure, but before she can lose control, his face blooms in a delighted smile. Bellamy steps forward, his arms up like he’s about to hug her, before he seems to catch himself and backs away quickly. Octavia hangs back, her sharp eyes darting between Clarke and her brother as he gives her and Maya enthusiastic praise on their work. Clarke just convinced him last week to open up an instagram account for the shop and Bellamy makes her stand on a chair and pose with the sign for the account’s first photo. Clarke grins at the camera and gives two big thumbs up.

She knows she’s in too deep.

It started as the innocent admiration of his arms, as a crush, but sometimes on slow nights they’ll plop into the bean bags and he tells her, haltingly, about the fissure he and Octavia aren’t sure they’ll ever be able to mend. About going hungry as a kid, about all the dreams he threw away and is now quietly, tentatively taking out of the trash and hoping again. Clarke tells him he deserves happiness. She’s so sure of it that she has to get up and pace around the floor for a bit so she doesn’t set the bean bag on fire.

She tells him about her father. About her mother. About the car accident that resulted in Wells’ death and subsequent ghosthood, and her lack thereof, because phoenixes are _really_ hard to permanently kill. They go to a pretentious movie together because no one else is willing and laugh into their popcorn at the dialogue. She shows him photos of her paintings on her phone and he asks if they can put a few up in the shop. He’s serious about it, too. So they do.

One day the coffee machine breaks and spews chewed up grounds everywhere and Clarke stands nearby with a wrench and watches Bellamy try to wrestle it into submission.

And she looks at his profile, at the hair hanging in his eyes, at the determined twitch in his jaw, and she thinks _oh_. _This is what it’s like. I’m in love. This isn’t a crush anymore. I’m in love. Love love lovelovelove_ –

She bursts into flames, a fire on a scale that hasn’t been seen since her very first day working at Blakes Brews. Bellamy drops the coffee machine and sprints for the fire extinguisher and dowses her in that disgusting foam before the fire can cause too much structural damage to her clothing.

Bellamy herds her into the back room anyway, away from the curious eyes of their customers, shouting over his shoulder for Monty and Maya to handle it. In the back room Clarke peels off the fourth apron she’s ruined and tries to wrap her head around the terrifying, dizzying magnitude of her realization.

She’s had crushes before, she’s dated, she’s adored people, but none of that comes close, none of that… ahem, _holds a candle_ to the easy comfort she shares with Bellamy. She _knows_ him. He _knows_ her. Their fingerprints are all over each other’s souls now.

“I have a spare sweater you can put on, if you, you know,” Bellamy says as he digs around in one of the cubicles. Clarke stares dumbly at the curve of his back. He resurfaces a moment later with something soft and oversized and smelling of him. Clarke reaches for it on auto-pilot. Her fingers close around his, and Bellamy freezes.

He’s standing very close. The back room is small, but not small enough to justify this. She should take a step back. She should take her hand off. She doesn’t do any of that, watching with breathless interest the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows hard.

“I thought touch was something that set you off,” he says in a low voice that makes Clarke’s whole body shiver.

“Sometimes,” she says. The majority of her brain is still going on in the background like a broken record, chanting _lovelovelove_ and _he hasn’t moved his hand_. There’s not enough of it for her to think of something else to say. His eyes are dark and unreadable and Clarke wants to take the last step into his arms and be enveloped by the sweet smell of coffee and old books. She _wants_ so very badly she’s afraid he’ll need to get the fire extinguisher out again.

“This is okay?” Bellamy asks.

“Yeah,” Clarke says. Her chest is tight. She doesn’t want the moment to end. “Bellamy,” she says.

“Yes?” he asks breathlessly.

“You’re allowed to touch me,” she says, and then she cracks a smile that is very brave and foolhardy, in the face of all the unaddressed tension between them. “There’s only like a 30% chance I’ll set your café on fire.”

He groans, slapping his free hand into his face, and just like that the tension has uncoiled. Clarke breathes easier, seeing his grin under his hand.

“My insurance _loves_ those odds,” he says, and gently removes his hand from her grip on the sweater. A whole symphony of noise that Clarke blotted out comes rushing back in – the clatter of mugs and cutlery beyond the door, Monty’s voice cheerfully calling out names for pickup over the gentle rise and fall of background conversation. Evidently Bellamy starts paying attention to it too, because he glances over his shoulder at the door and frowning at Monty’s pace. “I’d better go back out there and help them,” he says, sounding reluctant to leave her. “Sounds like the afterschool rush is starting.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Clarke says, ducking her head in embarrassment.

“Take your time,” Bellamy says. “Make sure you’re okay. Seriously, _insurance_.”

Clarke smiles at the door as it shuts behind him. She takes a deep breath, pulls his sweater over her singed tanktop, and then gets out her phone and texts Wells a very long string of exclamation marks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bellamy worries that everything will change, after the day the coffee machine breaks and Clarke spontaneously combusts again and they spend an embarrassingly long time staring into each other’s eyes being overwhelmed about their hands touching.

When he says it like that, really, can you blame him for worrying?

But no apocalypse comes down on their head. They have time to wonder and want and wait as Clarke gives him lingering smiles when they’re staying late to clean up, as Bellamy sees her making her mark on his coffee shop and gets so overwhelmed by affection that he has to remind himself to breathe.

They make it nearly 3 weeks before one day Clarke is scrolling through social media looking at pictures of latte art and swaying her hips to the radio in an unfairly distracting way. Bellamy looks at the latte art because it’s safer than the other option. Clarke has a furrow in between her eyebrows that is becoming deeply familiar to him.

“You have an idea,” Bellamy says with amusement.

“I dooo,” Clarke replies, sing-song. She puts her phone away and her hands on her hips, looking out over the kitchen with a look that borders between thoughtful and imperious. “I am terrible at making coffee,” she announces.

“You really are,” Bellamy agrees.

“Why don’t we do latte art?” Clarke demands.

“Because our customers appreciate us for the taste of our goods and the community-oriented atmosphere, and don’t need to be won over by glamourous tricks,” he says with a wry smile.

“I watched a lot of videos on it,” Clarke continues, like she hasn’t heard him. “I bet I could do it. I’m an artist. I could _decorate_ the coffee instead of _making_ it.”

“Prove it,” Bellamy says, and watches her tear through the bar with her usual single-minded purpose. Her fingers barely hesitate as she prepares a pitcher of steamed milk and then pours it into a smaller, more maneuverable measuring cup.

Bellamy hands her a fresh cup of coffee and settles in to watch her work. She sticks her tongue out the side of her mouth as she tilts the cup of coffee and carefully lets the first drops fall. Bellamy’s jaw drops in disbelief as she twists and turns the cup just so until a beautiful flower takes shape on the surface of the drink.

“That was not your first time,” he accuses. “You practiced at home. You practiced at home so you could impress me with how supposedly amazing you are at latte art on your first try.”

Clarke laughs hysterically, her eyes scrunched up with unbridled joy, and he knows he’s right. He just knows she set him up with the intention of blowing his expectations out of the water.

Or rather, out of the coffee.

A few of the customers sitting down to sip their drinks crane their necks to look at their outburst. Bellamy gives a sheepish wave and Clarke quiets down, though she can’t seem to stop grinning. Her smile so bright it could chase away the rainy, overcast weather outside their windows. One of the regulars gives them a knowing look that makes the back of Bellamy’s neck prickle with embarrassment.

He turns his attention back to the half-full pitcher of steamed milk instead.

“Let me try,” he says. “It looked kinda fun.”

He pours another mug and picks up the measuring cup, trying to hold it like Clarke did. He’s barely tilted it before Clarke reaches up and gently presses two fingers against his knuckles, forming a more even stream of milk.

“Be brave,” she instructs. “You have to give it a constant flow or it’ll end up looking jerky.”

Her other hand comes up and cups the back of his. Her palm is searing against his skin. Bellamy finds himself rapidly blinking.

“Move the mug,” Clarke continues, her hand gently directing his. “It’s easier to move the mug than to move the milk. Yeah, just like that.”

Bellamy is trying to listen, trying to focus on the very shitty flower that’s reluctantly taking shape in their hands, but Clarke is standing so close, and her eyelashes look extraordinarily long from this angle, nearly brushing against her cheekbones as she focuses on their latte art, and the mole above her lip quirks as she smiles, and –

“Woah, Bellamy, stop pouring!” Clarke says quickly, nudging the hand holding the measuring cup upright. “That’s enough.”

She looks up and realizes, like Bellamy just has, how close they are. Her gaze darts between his eyes and his lips. Someone behind the counter abruptly clears their throat.

Bellamy passes the mug to Clarke and hurries to the new customer, taking the order down on autopilot. His hands prepare the drink with practiced ease, throw a pastry into a paper bag, and pass everything over.

When he turns back to face Clarke, her face is beet red, but a cursory scan of her body doesn’t make any tiny fires jump out at him, so that’s probably good.

“You suck at latte art,” she tells him. Bellamy glances into the mug in her hands and grimaces slightly at the lopsided, incoherent blob of steamed milk sitting on top of the foam. “You could do the Rorschach test with this.”

“I get it, it’s terrible, we each have our own strengths,” Bellamy says, waving her off. “How’s it taste?”

Clarke doesn’t take her eyes off of him as she blows cool air over the mug’s surface and carefully takes a sip. Bellamy watches her lick the foam that sticks above the corner of her lip and takes a moment to be grateful he doesn’t spontaneously combust when experiencing strong emotions, too.

“It’s perfect. It always is,” Clarke says, giving him a soft smile. Then she backs off to the other side of the bar to poke the most recent pastries into submission and Bellamy lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

They give each other space until the end of their shift, then dawdle through cleanup, both of them taking long, dubious looks at the rain that’s started coming down harder outside the shop. At long last there’s no more excuses to stay indoors, so Clarke pulls the hood of her jacket up and huddles under the awning as Bellamy fumbles with the keys to lock up.

“Shit, the bus is early,” Clarke says suddenly, scrolling through her transit app.

“How long?” Bellamy asks, looking over her shoulder.

“It’s getting to the corner at one minute, there’s no way we’ll make it in time,” Clarke says.

“Not if we don’t try!” Bellamy yells, grabbing Clarke’s hand and dragging her into the pouring rain. She gives a shriek that morphs into breathless laughter as they sprint across the parking lot, their heads ducked down against the onslaught of rain. Clarke’s palm is searing to his skin, but not painfully so.

“We’re not gonna make it!” Clarke says as the bus rolls out from behind a cluster of dense trees. Its engine makes a pathetic groan as the driver pauses at the stop sign and then accelerates again.

“Hey!” Bellamy yells, waving his free hand in the air, but he’s not entirely surprised when the bus keeps going. The rain is coming down in such strong sheets that the driver would probably have difficulty spotting them even if they knew to look.

Clarke and Bellamy both slow their desperate sprint to a half-hearted walk as the bus drives out of view.

“Well,” Clarke says. “We’re already soaked, so we may as well walk to the next station.”

“Sorry I dragged you out for nothing,” Bellamy says. Clarke’s hood fell back from her face at some point during their run, and the water has plastered her hair to the top of her head and is now running down her face in thin rivulets. She blinks off the droplets on her eyelashes and holds her other hand out, palm up. The raindrops that fall on her outstretched hands steam and hiss at her heat.

“It’s fine,” Clarke says serenely. “I kinda like it.” Then she gives him a cunning look that makes the bottom of his stomach swoop out. “If you’re going to kiss me,” she says with an arched eyebrow and an overly casual voice. “Now would probably be a good time. The rain will put out any fires I start.”

“It’s a little cliché, isn’t it?” Bellamy murmurs as he takes a half-step closer.

“All the best things are.”

Clarke has to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes, raindrops falling into her face. She closes her eyes against them and gives a neutral hum. Bellamy brushes his fingertips under her jaw, feels her shiver despite the incredible heat coming off of her skin. The rain is steaming off her forehead now as well. He leans in and presses his mouth to hers, and is shocked by how much he likes it. She tastes like his coffee, his best brew, and she’s as warm as one too. They take their time kissing, two hands still intertwined, as Clarke sighs into his lips.

They pull away slowly and only because the rumble of the next bus making its way down the street greets them.

“Best coffee shop in the city,” Clarke murmurs against his lips, still looking a little dazed.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You have n o i d e a how close I came to titling this fic '420 Blaze It'  
> Also I didn't have time to include more delinquents BUT Raven is definitely a dragon and she wants to grow up to hoard shiny cars and red jackets.
> 
> EDIT: this fic is a submission for the first round of The 100 Chopped Challenge. The other submissions can be found in the same collection as this work, though not all are Bellarke. If you liked Fight Fire With uh, Coffee?, consider dropping by thelittlefanpire's or dylanobrienisbatman's tumblrs in the next two days to vote for it. :)


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